The other day I wrote this poem:
Maybe if I stuck to something long enough
instead of running away
or thinking happiness was somewhere else,
I could trust myself.
With this poem I realized something. Trusting yourself is about planting the seeds of that trust through action. Every promise you make to yourself whether it is to treat yourself with kindness or show up in some capacity to create something in your life, relies on your commitment to act in accordance with that promise.
Trust is not a given. It is earned, over time and with consistency. Trust is showing…
If you look closely you will see that life is full of new beginnings. Every breath — each inhale and each exhale is an opportunity to start again. The sunrise. A sunset. The change of seasons. New beginning can be a powerful homage to the inevitable cycle of life and death as well as an opportunity to reorient ourselves with focused energy on how we would like to move forward.
I wrote this for myself after standing in the face of my anxiety. Anxiety is something I feel more shame about than anything. I have destroyed relationships and pushed people away because of it. I have torn myself apart. This is my dark spot. I can’t keep fighting it anymore, pretending that it doesn’t affect me or that I have it “managed” enough to be okay. It is a persistent visitor. Maybe it isn’t a visitor at all.
I hope the following words can help you find the courage to be vulnerable and embark on a journey of self-acceptance. This…
The other day I was triggered by something that sent me into a thought spiral. Negativity piled upon negativity and I found myself slipping back into an old habit of wanting to nit pick everywhere I perceived I was not good enough. It started with my body and ended with my character. A deep feeling of shame settled over me as my anxious mind sought to berate my very being, over and over and over again.
When this happens, and if you’re reading this perhaps it’s happened to you, it can feel like there is no way out. You have…
You are scrolling through Instagram and bam it hits you — that picture, those words, the mood. You have found an idea that you want and with its finding comes a deep feeling.
Of lack. Of striving. Of “I don’t have that.”
In this space of not having, comes the weight of that not having. It is visceral which makes the thoughts that follow feel all the more real. You think “I must not be cool, or pretty or successful. I must be failing at X because I do not have Y”.
I could sit here and tell you that…
I can sit here and say that creating with consistency is simply too slow. That the process — my process is too slow. That this is a meandering when perhaps it should be more straightforward. I write and sit and write and still even when something finally is molded beneath my fingers to my satisfaction it is not enough.
Perhaps it can never be enough, for when the moment you go to share your art, there is a best and a worse, measured by someone else’s metrics but weighed against your own.
It seems it might be easier to collapse…
Yes, there is a difference.
I like to think of exercise as a very small box the fitness and wellness industry convince us we need to cram ourselves into. On paper exercise is an activity requiring physical effort, carried out to sustain or improve health and fitness but in practice exercise might as well be defined as a rigid set of activities, carried out in a specific way to achieve an arbitrary, yet pervasive idea of health and fitness. …
My stomach is my mother’s stomach. It carries with it the weight of genes and generations. Consisting of bathing suits that must be worn to cover the belly button, and spontaneous diets to eliminate lactose. My stomach is my mother’s stomach inherited from her mother, passed around the dinner table, whispered while getting dressed, told as a casual remark of worry:
“I am getting fat.” My grandmother would say over a phone call.
“I am getting fat.” My mother would say after indulging in imported cheeses.
“Fat. I am getting fat.” I say, staring at my belly in the mirror…
I saw a bird once. It hopped across my path, in between a parked car and the sidewalk and as I came closer it did not fly away in the way you might expect, but stayed there right in front of me a tangible thing I could hold on to as if nestled in the center of my empty hands, pulling me from my thoughts, to my body, to the space we shared just for a moment.
And then it was gone.
Everything moved out of focus and I was left with my fingers clenched into…
I grip my hands tightly onto the table, scoot out my chair and refuse to leave my seat. I wait until I decide it feels right, then my body becomes like fire and I thrust myself into unpacking the boxes in the next room, searching for that one small kitchen appliance, I could do without and I will do without tomorrow. Moving between these two extremes, moments pass like the haphazard landscape out the passenger window. I am along for the ride, driven by a fear that fluctuates between flight and freeze, fight and flee searching for freedom.